


the prancing and pawing of each little hoof

by Shachaai



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Christmas nonsense, French aesthetics meet reindeer poop: guess which wins, Gen, M/M, all terrible knitted things owned by the Brit sibs were either made by Wales or one of the kids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 18:22:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19729210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shachaai/pseuds/Shachaai
Summary: French melodrama and Scottish wildlife.





	the prancing and pawing of each little hoof

**Author's Note:**

> Very belatedly crossposted from my tumblr.
> 
> With slight apologies to Edinburgh’s Christmas market - which is lovely, but really had too short a loop of Christmas-related songs playing on my last visit, so the Disney ear-worms played on _endless repeat_.

It is a somewhat depressing state of affairs that nothing else in France’s life truly expresses his… _attachment_ to the Nation of Scotland better than the fact that he, _La République Française,_ in this modern day and age, actually owns a pair of hiking boots that have suffered actual wear and tear. And that the soles of said hiking boots - as stylish as France could find and that Scotland did not scoff _too_ loudly at for being ‘flimsy pieces of shite that’ll fall apart in the first puddle’ - are currently covered in a mixture of snow, mud, and reindeer shit.

France takes a moment in the middle of this miniature mountain Scotland, their guide and the group around them are currently dragging him up to take a breather, lifting up one of his boots and dolefully regarding the sorry state of its underside.

It is worse than he thought. The soles of his boots are coated in snow, mud, and _fresh_ reindeer shit.

 _“Le romantisme est mort._ ” Along with France’s dreams of olfactory peace.

Around him, Cairngorm National Park is a picture of beauty. They are three hours out from Edinburgh and the abuse of Disney’s _Do You Wanna Build A Snowman?_ in its Christmas market, the music and chatter of crowds replaced with the sound of the wind and the rolling chirps of snow buntings going about their business. Bright, flashing lights and holiday sales have given way to the long range of the Cairngorms and their persistent streaks of snow, the deep dark green of the Caledonian Forest broken up in the valleys only by the glittering rivers and the flashes of movement that are birds in flight, the occasional grazing deer.

“My face is frozen,” France announces to the world at large, sniffing away the cold in his nose once his foot and its sticky coating has been placed safely out of smelling distance on the ground once more. “I shall never be able to use it again.”

“Your mouth’s still going,” says Scotland with the precise lack of sympathy that always makes France wonder why he ever bothers kissing the other man. Scotland _does_ make a rather effective windblock when he stops beside France, dependably, attractively, _solid,_ but, considering he is the reason France is even being exposed to the wind in the first place, it makes an exceedingly poor redeeming feature. “We’ll worry when that stops.”

 _“Écosse,_ ” France complains, but all the words that might’ve followed it are lost when his mouth is suddenly obstructed by cloth - the heavy weight of Scotland’s scarf, taken straight from Scotland’s neck and looped thrice around France’s by Scotland’s steady hands, tail ends now flapping behind France’s shoulders.

“Better?” Scotland asks him, his grin as lopsided as the collar of his disturbed coat.

France considers it. The scarf is a terribly ugly thing that seems to be hoping it can pass for some shade of the colour green, knitted inexpertly with lumps and bobbles in the loops. There is, however, no-one on in the National Park to see France _wearing_ the thing apart from Scotland, a few humans, and some reindeer, and it is a very long and thick scarf, warm against the wind from Scotland’s body-heat and still smelling of the anise and fragrant woodsmoke of Scotland’s aftershave.

France buries his - frozen - face in it, feeling his damp breath heat his cheeks, and deigns to reach out and grasp the solid comfort of Scotland’s hand. “ _Merci bien.”_

If he dies on this mountain hike, his corpse will be iced to the arm of the one responsible for his death, and Scotland may carry him home.

Scotland squeezes his fingers back, and pretends to be very interested in the shapes of the clouds overhead.

They continue on to the reindeer like that, hand-in-hand with the rest of their group up to the plateaux of the Cairngorms to see the UK’s only free-roaming herd. The reindeer shit grows more common the closer they get to the animals - France is _beyond_ wincing at the awful _squish_ underfoot at this point -, but it is a forgiveable sacrifice to be able to move amongst the herd, gloves peeled off to let velvet reindeer muzzles bury themselves in their palms for guide-approved treats.

“ _Oh,_ ” says France, and has to resist bending forward to kiss the - female, according to the guide, because France cannot tell at all when they all have antlers - reindeer which currently has its muzzle buried in his hands on its gentle head. He does not wish to end this trip with antlers to his already abused face. “Oh, but you are _perfect._ ”

Having already taken pictures on his phone (how does he even get _signal_ out here?), Scotland strokes along the same reindeer’s back. “Even though you had to take a hike to see her?”

“You think I am going to try and tell a _reindeer_ where to live?” France scoffs. “In _December?_ Think of the outcry in the stables of _Père Noël_.”

“…You think all the French reindeer are going to threaten strike action?”

“ _Écosse,_ do not make me stop cuddling the reindeer to come around there and hit you.”


End file.
